Page 68 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
Collin choked out a laugh before quickly smothering it.
“Jim,” Spencer started, “you have to admit, the memes are kind of?—”
“Finish that sentence, and you’re unemployed,” I snapped at Spencer, who clamped his mouth shut because he was struggling to remain serious and not burst into laughter.
I walked to the counter, picked up one of the muffins, which was blueberry, my favorite, and stared at it. “You’re making me breakfast?”
Jake grinned, trying to play it cool. “Well, after poker last night, we figured you might be a little…tense. And, uh, hungry.”
“Hungry?” I said. “And I beat all your drunk asses at poker last night, but that’s neither here nor there. The point at hand is that my marriage is currently trending under#TreeHuggerDivorce,and you honestly think I would be hungry?”
Collin raised a spatula. “We thought maybe pancakes would soften the blow.”
“Softening the blow would’ve been deleting your damn posts.”
Spencer slid a mug toward me. “Black coffee. No sugar. Just how you like it, big guy. And for the record, those captions weren’tours.People just sorta twisted it and ran with it.”
“Ranwith it?” I repeated. “No, theysprintedwith it like Usain Bolt.”
They all exchanged a look. That silent look that said,we screwed up, but maybe he won’t kill us if we keep feeding him,look.
Finally, Jake leaned against the counter, grinning. “Look at it this way: at least the internet thinks you’re single. It’s like a return to The Billionaires’ Club bachelor boost. Perhaps, an image rehab. PR will spin it and make you shine.”
I glared at him. “I don’t need any of that shit. What I need is my wife back before I legitimatelyamwhat these trending posts are stating.”
That shut them up for a good ten seconds.
Spencer finally muttered, “It’s all going to be smoothed over, you know that.”
I grabbed the coffee, took a sip, and sighed. “You’re all cleaning this kitchen. Then you’re leaving. I’ve got a wife to track down before she decides the internet is right.”
Jake smirked. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” I said, setting the mug down, “if she thinks I’m suddenly claiming to be single, those damn brown trees will be the ones rescuingmysorry ass.”
My plan was simple: find Avery, fix whatever fresh viral hell this had become, and finally put an end to the world’s stupidest marital cold war.
But then my phone rang again.Jillian Reed.Head of PR.
“Sir,” she said before I could even speak, “we need you at the office. Now.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, the internet doesn’t take weekends off. We’re drafting response statements and need your approval. Some outlets are running with the divorce angle.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Of course they are.”
“Also,” she hesitated, “a morning-show producer requested an exclusive segment calledThe Billionaire Who Loved Too Hard and Finally Lost.I told them you were unavailable. Indefinitely.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
By the timeI arrived at Mitchell and Associates, the lobby screens were looping news clips ofme, holding that stupid brown tree like a hero in a Hallmark movie gone wrong, followed by poker-night footage that made me look like a recently divorced man on a bourbon bender.
I glanced over at security. “Get that shit turned off,” I ordered.
“Yes, Mr. Mitchell,” he nodded and then moved toward the media offices.
Jillian met me the moment the elevator doors opened, tablet in hand, heels clicking a mile a minute. “Sir, the narrative’s shifting every hour. We can neutralize it if we control the message.”
